


Inside the Mind

by Imprise



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Extended Scene, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Internal Monologue, M/M, Mentioned Irene Adler, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Mary's Death, Season/Series 04, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9418553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imprise/pseuds/Imprise
Summary: Some small part of what goes on in Sherlock's head as he talks with John in the few moments before they embrace.





	

**Author's Note:**

> After I watched The Lying Detective I was quite surprised at how the two men showed emotion during their final conversation. Their reactions were clipped, their words so very careful, an unusual intensity in their usual revolutions around each other; they felt like they were crumbling, trying to find the best thing to say. This work is me imagining what it could have been like in Sherlock's methodical brain as that happened, as they figured out partially what best to try together.

Irene Adler. He's talking to me about Irene Adler. Should've known, always messy, John's never had a knack for making the best of a situation. He thinks I love her, always has and always will, and I've never moved to correct him so I believe the fault is mine. Can't resent her for sending that damn text, though – made him stay when I couldn't, bless her timing. I don't even care what she's said, it's probably something about one man or the other she's scared half to death, it's usually those stories that she likes to share. It's a special occasion, she will have found something appropriate – I'm sure, actually, that I'd enjoy reading it sometime. But it wouldn't be now, not when John's like this, so I don't understand why he won't let off about it – does he actually want Irene and I to be together? I sit a little more loosely in the chair, he'll pick up on that and think I'm opening to the conversation so I can learn what he wants from me. Pull a shoulder back very softly, that's right, his reaction will be intuitive if I know my Watson at all.

“Seriously, we're not going to talk about this?”

There's a good boy. I think he's curious, it's always best when John's curious, he tries things I'd never imagine. Well, that's not true, I would imagine quite a bit, but the way he tries them is nothing short of masterful. I'll keep my eyes lowered just so he doesn't sense what I'm thinking, which is a probable accident – I'm not in very good shape after all. “Talk about what?” Yes, there we go, let's draw it out.

“I mean, how does it work?”

Oh, this is marvelous. John's talking to me with all the sensitivity of roadkill and I'm utterly dazed by it, it's been so long since I wanted him to sod off. And he's _talking_ to me because I might have a love interest? He's talking to me because it's about me, and now that's just _brilliant_ , but it also means I can't tell him the truth now. The first of three possible outcomes of _that_ , of me telling him we're not involved, would be that John drops the matter, disillusioned and irritated by my banality, and exits with further evidence that I am an Incurable Sociopath. This outcome could convince him finally that I am not interested in women, or that I've never felt any hidden love for Irene, but it would definitely work against the purpose of this conversation (namely, becoming tolerable to John Watson) and is therefore openly Negative. (It might not even achieve the first result, since he'd still have Janine as a Very Heterosexual example.) The second outcome would be that John becomes even more curious and pressures me further, in which case I'd either lie or repeat the truth – the first would carry me back to the beginning of the deductive cycle and into a new realm of possibilities, the second only to the previous step, which leads to the outcomes I am already listing: This one is Neutral, as far as Neutral goes. Still not worth the risk. The third, and most devastating, is that John becomes even more angry with me because he thinks I'm lying to his face in a transparent attempt to conceal an affair that he believes he's already worked out, and that he thinks I know he knows about; it would make him feel both insulted and rejected that I would still be trying so feebly to hide the existence of a lover from him: He would believe it to either be a lack of trust, a lack of affection, or an underestimation of his perceptiveness. Or maybe he'd attribute it to my being an Incurable Sociopath. In any case, this outcome is dangerously Negative. Conclusion: I will not tell John Watson the truth.

“How does what work?” Still playing it safe. Will he get bored now? Can't look up yet, but – oh, he smiled, now that's just odd. Watson, you're completely mad. That was a flicker of a smile but it was a smile right there, I think I can risk looking at him now – no, nope, not when he's said “You and the Woman?” like that. That line calls for theatrics, a sigh and drop of the eyes is what I'll need. This is just too fascinating, seeing John's psyche like this; is he really so interested in what I think of her, or is it my availability that troubles him? Can't be that one, there's an utter lack of motivation there: He knew me to be perfectly available for two years and still went and married Mary Morstan. Granted, I was decidedly unavailable when that whole thing got started, but I did manage to reappear just as sprucey and fuckable before they tied the knot. Granted, I must not have seemed as fuckable when I'd just put him through so much emotional pain, but there was a bit of time for recovery between that and the wedding – I helped plan it. And _granted_ , it's difficult to weasel out of a marriage when it's only just happening with the sole purpose of attaching yourself to the best man, even if the particular occasion sheds light (a light you must realize the best man sees) on a possible homosexual relationship between you and a military acquaintance, casting the necessary doubt on your sexuality for the best man to be even more glaringly Available. That's difficult. But my conclusion stays put: He wouldn't bother questioning whether I am available now because he has absolutely no self-interest in the matter – the man's wife is dead and I've practically killed her, I'll have hit some new lows on his Attraction List. Bad thought: Moving on. So is he interested then in my opinion of Irene Adler? That's weak, he knows what I think: I think she's bloody brilliant. I remember I pretended to think she was alive and safe in America while John thought I thought this only because he'd told me so and also that she was really dead, because Mycroft had told him to tell me this even though he knew I knew she wasn't dead because I'd saved her, so the whole thing was really fooling John into thinking that he was sparing my feelings by telling me a woman he thought I loved was not dead even though he thought she was dead, and all the while I knew exactly where and just how alive she was because I'd been part of the whole thing. I realize now that this is the first time since that day that John has had occasion to hear from her: Oh, dear, now he knows that she's alive and Mycroft had been lying, and will have deduced that he'd only have been lied to in that manner (being made to think he was doing me a favor) to really convince _him_ of that lie, and not to convince _me_ of it, which means I probably knew all along that she was alive and still didn't indicate in any way that I'd known, which makes him look like a fool. There are two things he can take from this: One, that I had such low regard for him and his dignity that I wouldn't bother to address an issue he'd put forth out of concern for my well-being and Two, that I was letting him believe the lie because it would mean he'd no longer have the only romantic rival he's ever thought he had with me. As much as I'd like to skew things one way, my deductive habit leans towards the first – damn her bloody timing, he need never have known, but then we wouldn't be having this conversation so I guess it's still favorable. But _has_ he deduced that I had a hand in her rescue? It'd be just like John to think it, to think of me as that white knight, but perhaps not in light of recent events – Bad thought, moving on, this is not the time or place to deal with that again. I'm here right now to puzzle over John Watson and the responses and emotions that always hit me where I won't see them. I wasn't expecting him to punch me that first night I returned from the dead, but so he did: I still cherish the memory. It was less harrowing than when he beat me in the mortuary, which I think was one of the very worst things we've done together. It was still better than silence.

“D’you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes? Is there a ... night of passion in High Wycombe?”

Now that sounds cheery. Well, maybe not cheery, but it's a far cry from offended, disgusted or betrayed, so I'll just respond in kind. Or perhaps not, I think it's time to move on with the conversation, I'll signal to him my utter disinterest in her while making it clear we're still in some form of contact. Life is, after all, just a really large compromise. “Oh, for God’s sakes. I don’t text her back.”

He's chuckling. I don't know whether to be alarmed or pleased with myself. Does it mean he's happy that I don't care for her romantically? That he's amused by the extent of my Incurable Sociopathy? Has he gone completely off his rocker? I thought we were having a serious conversation. Or maybe these chuckles are building up to something violent, I think that's most likely. I'll tuck in my limbs a little as a precaution in case he starts to hit me again. “Why not?” He's pacing, and now he's stopped and is looking at me with a _smile._ I can't be optimistic enough to think he's pleased I'm Available. “You bloody moron!” Definitely not pleased. Should stare at him now, give him some validation – it would also help to see exactly when he decides to punch me, bracing for impact and all that. “She's out there, she _likes_ you, and she’s alive.” Oh, he's very angry. It's got to do with Mary, the whole conversation has been about her. I'm disappointed, this is not something I'd factored in his possible motivations but it seems I really should have, it's the only one that makes sense. He's past the physical catharsis stage and must now show himself in no unclear terms how little I care for love; this whole ordeal is making me appear as if I know nothing of the value of a lover, and this perceived coldness will make it even easier for him to hate me for what I've done, because he'll think I didn't understand the weight of my vows in the first place. Christ, John, you're exhausting. “Do you have the first idea how lucky you are?” Right, here we go, I didn't want to have seen that one coming but there it is. “Yes, she’s a lunatic, she’s a criminal, she’s _insanely_ dangerous – trust you to fall for a sociopath ... ” John, can we move on from this? Your basic premise is wrong, I've not fallen for her, therefore there is nothing I am failing to appreciate, therefore I am not cold and ignorant, therefore I do understand why you are hurting, therefore I am honoring Mary's memory just as you are, and as an extra I am fully romantically Open. That's about the shape of it. And he must realize he's being hypocritical, he just described his ex-wife – I at least do not consider myself dangerous. I go looking for such people, yes, and I do deal with such situations, but does the word apply to me? I could never in a million years be dangerous to John. Well, I have been, but that's a Bad Thought so I'm Moving On. “But she's...you know...” He's still talking about her, so I think we should both be moving on by now.

“What?” Better to let him get it off his chest if he has so much to say. What exactly does he think she is? Maybe he'll just go on and say it openly. Say he thinks she's magnificent, or that she'll be good for me, or that we could be lovers, that I'm lying – no, he's not built up to that, I should be thinking more clearly – something of that sort nevertheless.

“Just text her back.” John, give me more to work with. I'll have to produce another inane prompt now. “Why?”

“Because High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand.”

He most definitely thinks I'm clueless about love. John, you repressed sod, you're not High Wycombe, you're my bloody London and that's as poetic as I can get about a person. I am perfectly equipped to understand and I don't care about High Wycombe, because my understanding facilities are sufficiently evolved to comprehend a much better place. I'll hint at that, and I'll do it petulantly; I think I'm pouting anyway so it won't be hard. “I once caught a triple poisoner in High Wycombe.”

“That's only the beginning, mate.” _Mate?_ At least his voice has grown softer. But what does that even mean? Is he alluding to the many stresses of marital life? The difficulty of maintaning a meaningful bond with another person under the weight of a commitment that compels you to reconsider any attempt you might have made to break with them over newly-revealed aspects of their personality, however shocking or life-changing those aspects may be? Is this his way of joking about Irene's colorful background? What an enigma this man is. I'll have to consider this reply carefully. I don't want to offend him by rejecting Irene any further, which is a strange turn after all my precious efforts to make him think exactly that, that I want to reject Irene but not the idea of a lover. Maybe if I do the exact opposite he'll think something else. It'll be a calculated risk; it's unlikely he'll walk away now, he's so heated up over the matter, and if I say something incendiary there's a real chance he'll betray some hidden emotion. Let's see how this plays out. “As I think I have explained to you _many_ times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people ... ”

“... would complete you as a human being.”

Oh, shit. Did he just say that? It must be the drugs, but that's not possible, it's been long enough since my last dose. Well, it could be possible, it's happened before, there was that bride mystery that went on in the plane before John came to get me; maybe I've completely lost it and this whole scene's just an elaborate self-construction for quiet comfort. That is a possibility I cannot reject, but for the sake of sanity I'll have to disregard it for the moment: If I begin to analyze all my past and present actions in this manner I'll never be certain of anything. I could've sunk into this self-controlled mind game at any point in my life. And who's to say such delusions wouldn't be as real as anything else? I do feel everything after all. My senses are quite adept and I can think just as clearly. I could kiss John right now, get up and do it and feel his heart rate stutter, and that would feel real and that's enough. I don't have time at the moment to further analyze the nature of reality, but I don't think I'll reach any new conclusions: The existence of any one thing, event, moment or conversation cannot be proven by any method of deduction as it would by default involve all the deductive tools of the thinker in question, and the deduction would only be valid for the frame in which it was made, which would make it impossible to work out the qualities of the frame itself. But I'm diverging painfully from the actual issue here, which is that John Watson has just told me in no harsh terms that I need a lover to be whole; I'm waiting for the inevitable deductive leap here – he _has_ to make it. Premise: Sherlock Holmes is incomplete without a romantic interest. Observation: Sherlock Holmes devastates his mind and body in the absence of John Watson, who has recently gotten married to Mary Morstan and is definitely Not Available. Observation Two: Sherlock Holmes devastates his mind and body in the absence of John Watson, who blames Sherlock Holmes for the death of his wife and is _definitely_ Not Available. Observation Three: On both occasions, Sherlock Holmes regains his mental and corporal strength only after John Watson has returned and then guaranteed both his continued presence and his forgiveness. Conclusion: John Watson is the aforementioned romantic interest. It's child's play, John has to have understood it by now. My contrariness has produced stellar results, so I'll continue with that until he finally gets it. “That doesn't even mean anything.” Do go on and contradict me, I'll never be more glad to be proven wrong.

“Just text her. Phone her. Do _something_ while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it’s gone before you know it.” I'm going to kill myself. Dear God, John, don't be so daft – why are we back to square one again? I thought we were past this. Maybe I should be listening for other hints in what you're saying – no, right now you're repeating your last four words, but with more emphasis – I guess this is a reflection of how much you still suffer because of Mary. Well, I'm being very selfish, I see that now – you're in such emotional pain and I'm only thinking of myself. That's typical but I wasn't doing it on purpose; I want to comfort you now but I don't know how to. I'll just let you talk some stuff out, and then we'll see how I can be useful. I'm sorry for being an arsehole but it's difficult to think when you've a fixed conclusion – I've made a deductive mistake and I can only attribute that to your involvement in the situation.

“She was wrong about me.”

That is in many ways both what I was and was not expecting. At least I had the sense to deduce who you were thinking of before you said this, so I can ask the right question. “Mary? How so?”

“She thought that if you put yourself in harm’s way I’d ... I’d rescue you or something. But I didn’t – not ’til she told me to.” Me again, but not centrally. That's a definite _hm_ and nothing more. In fact, I think he's still going on about the treasures of romantic living – do shut up, John, it's always tiring to listen to a lecture over again. “And that’s how this works. That’s what you’re missing.” He looks quite nice in that light, I wish he was saying something interesting. “She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that.”

But – what? He's doing that thing again, making me think we're talking about something when we really, really aren't. How did we come to this again, John? Don't you _see_ how this relates to our situation? I didn't see it either until you said those final words, but now that you have it's achingly obvious. _She taught me to be the man she already thought I was?_ That's me, John, you're describing me in this obnoxious wilderness, it's you who's made me into the creature I am now – all gentle and virile – I folded _napkins_ for you, I shot a man dead, I found reasons to stay alive and took care of your newborn child. I am a better human being because you thought I was something different, a thing crushingly beautiful, you thought I was kind and I could grow quiet and that's exactly what I did. _Get yourself a piece of that_ , my arse, I already have a piece of that but it's not _mine._ Put your deductive skills to the test and it just might be.

How would I say this politely? I don't want to scare him off, he'll have to guess at my meaning. I don't want to give him a long-winded speech, he's already tense and very much in pain, but if I don't at least manage an introduction now I'll never get over it. “Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice. I have known many people in this world but made few friends, and I can safely say ...” That you are the best man, the most extraordinary man of all, that you've touched me in a way I never thought possible. That I know the exact nature of the change you've been talking of all this time, and have experienced it in all its forms under your two tight hands. Give me a moment to speak and I'll say all of these things to you, I swear I'll say them only to you, John – “I cheated on her.”

Why do I keep misreading this conversation? It's still about her, not him and me or my theoretical lovers. But look at his face, it's ashen. I think the conversation's about _him,_ really, it's painfully obvious now, I hate the lag in my reasoning today. All his Irene Adler anger was his own guilt and suffering, reflected in commands and admonishments – I really have failed to read this man. It's still best to let him talk, but I do hope my face hasn't betrayed shock: He'll definitely misread that and think I'm judging him. Come to think of it, I haven't thought a moment about the actual content of what he's said; it was slightly interesting, yes, now that I think about it, but he looks like he's in too much pain for me to really have that morbid interest coming on. I'd just as soon he didn't tell me if he'll suffer because of it.

“No clever come-back?” Yeah, I was a bit too wrapped up in my head to form a reply; I'm sorry, John, I'll just let you talk. “I cheated on you, Mary.” Are you talking to yourself now? Oh, I see what's going on, that's understandable. Must have been lonely in that big house. It's very good for him to open up about it this way, it'll be much better for dream-Mary to forgive him than for me to try the same; it's actually very brave of him to do it, too, to face his wife like this. “There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I’d been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me.” It's disconcerting for him to be so open in front of me, but I don't mind at all, so the word was wrong actually and it's just unusual for him to do this. I hope I don't look like I'm paying rapt attention, it's his moment with another person after all. “That’s all it was; it was a smile.” Now I have to look at his face, I'm afraid of the tone he's taken. I don't feel good about this at all. “We texted constantly. You want to know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – _that’s_ when.” His eyes are getting moist, I should look away in a moment. “That’s all it was, just texting.” Now's a good time to do so. I don't like seeing him like this, but I'd look forever if it would make a difference – I just know it won't. “But I wanted more.” If only he knew how natural I find all of this business, if only he felt it as acutely as I do. Is dream-Mary making him feel it? I'll look at his face again, try and see what's going on. “And d’you know something? I still do. I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point. That’s the whole point.” I'm overwhelmed with tenderness. John's going to cry, I know it, his expression is wonderful in every sense of the word – I've never really seen anything like it. “Who you thought I was ... is the man who I _want_ to be.” That was beautiful, and he's beautiful, and there's nothing I want to do more than make him stop feeling like this. He's crying now. Should I comfort him? For once I don't want to deduce my way through this. If I calculate the risks there's no way I'll do what I intuitively know is the right thing. Well, perhaps that's also a part of deduction, seeing that intuition is only what I perceive in limited consciousness; John's stance, his vulnerability, the knowledge of his suffering have coupled with my primal instinct to touch. He might reject me, but I'll take it. His face is getting closer, he smells so familiar, I'll have to fight not to cry as well if I smell this for long. I'm moving quite slowly so it must seem very alien, but I don't think he's in a position to make assumptions about this. I just don't want to startle him.

“It's okay.” That's very weak, I hadn't planned on saying that but it just sort of slipped out. I can do something better, something I feel to my bones should be good: I'll put my left hand on his arm, my right on his back – that one's slid quite naturally up to his neck, the other to his shoulder. I'm holding him and nothing's ever felt just this right or this devastating to me before. My robe's getting wet, it must be uncomfortable for him to put his face in the fabric, I'll lead his face up to my collar and hold him there. It's overwhelming, it's overwhelming. My chest's aching, John. It's aching like mad.

“It's not okay.” His voice is rumbling through me. That's good, that makes it real, he's still speaking and it's coherent so we'll be alright together.

“No.” I know it's not okay, I didn't mean to say that. There's only one thing to say about this that could be Neutral, and not Negative; I'll tell you in a moment, after my cheek's brushed the side of your head. I know that's intimate, but I've got to feel you being solid, I've got to be large enough to have you grow well inside me. “But it is what it is.” I hope someday that starts being Positive, John, and I hope that I can give it to you in the most tender manner possible. Right now I'll just place my good hand on your skin and feel you rock against me; that's all I can do but I'll do it until you've become quiet enough to listen. I hope then things will be different. I hope then I'll know what to say.

 

 


End file.
